Regretting Resentment
by happysquid008
Summary: Therandil reflects on his past, and philosophically comes to a realization. onesided TherandilCimorene


Regretting Resentment

~happysquid08

Therandil was bored. So bored he couldn't even think in grand, prolonged statements anymore. Usually when he was bored he would think of new situations where his manliness and prowess would be tested (this was usually in a battle), and he would make up new, impressive lines to throw at the enemy.

But that hadn't been working lately.

Therandil had married the beautiful Princess Keredwel from the Kingdom of Raxwel about two years ago after valiantly rescuing her from the dread dragon Gornul. She was the pinnacle of his kingdom's castle, both of them madly in love, until about three months ago.

Then he started to get _bored._

He didn't know what it was. The kingdom was prosperous, he was strong, and his queen was beautiful.

Therandil wandered around his castle, looking for distraction.

In the armory, the ceiling towered over him. Therandil picked up a spear and spun it on its arrowhead. He sat at a bench, still spinning the spearhead. Looking up at the grand wooden beams, Therandil appreciated the intricate beauty of the dark wood's crisscrosses and twisting golden streaks. The wood was so dark it was almost black. If he had to put a name to the shade, he would have to say the Princess Cimorene's hair.

He stood, ran a light finger over the sturdy beam closest to him.

He knew that Cimorene had somehow become the King of Dragons' Chief Cook and Librarian, and it made him laugh. The ridiculousness of the title boggled him. He would never understand why she wanted that job. Maybe now she didn't, with a name like that. Maybe she would run away, like she had done before they were supposed to be engaged.

Suddenly Therandil remembered that they had been in this place before she had run away. She had come to talk to him about the marriage their parents had planned out. Tried to stop it, in fact.

He was looking down at the cobblestones, now. Tracing the footsteps she had taken all those years ago. Was it three? So long ago. Tracing the rows of swords with his eyes, Therandil found the sword he had been looking at on that day.

"_Good morning, Princess." I had been startled by her sudden appearance. "Don't you think this is a lovely sword?" I inwardly flinched. Princesses weren't supposed to know anything about swords. A mistake, a huge social blunder._

_She immediately took it from his hands and inspected it. Did a few standard swings._

"_The balance is off." _

"_I believe you're right." Meaning, you don't even know what you're talking about! Or, at least, you're not supposed to. I was surprised she had picked up the sword at all, and here she was, judging its balance. Are princesses supposed to know anything about the balance of a sword?_

_I grabbed it back, desperately checking for the sword's perfection. I found that the balance was indeed concentrated on the wrong half._

"_Pity; now I shall have to find another. Is there something I could do for you?"_

"_Yes. You could_ not_ marry me."_

That was how the conversation began. He had finally admitted that he didn't want to marry her and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But now, as Therandil gently and slowly drew out the sword with the faulty balance, he realized that he could have put a stop to it. It was his refusal to act that kept his wishes from interfering with the wedding.

Methodically, Therandil began to gallantly swing his sword in an endless loop of figure eights. His favorite practice with the sword had always been this. Slowly, still making figure eights, he began to dance across the room: the dance that had killed so many enemies, the dance of death. The sword flashed in the light of the windows that illuminated the room as he danced, leaving a beautiful streak of gold in the irises of Therandil as he watched his sword sing, the black wood of the ceiling creating a sharp contrast to the glittering blade.

It reminded him not of his wife and her hair of ripened wheat, but of something he never thought he had noticed before – the golden crown brightly zipping through the black hair of Princess Cimorene.

He had been almost gleeful when she had run away – gleeful but hurt. His pride had taken a blow. He hadn't wanted to marry her either, but such animosity (to the point of near civil disobedience) against marrying him was unfounded.

When he set off to rescue her, he had intended to force her to marry him, almost of out spite. Almost.

There was the glory of defeating the dread dragon that held Cimorene, there was the glory of winning half of the kingdom of Linderwall, and there was the pressure of the expectations of his family and friends. He knew that if he didn't rescue her, then he would be a laughingstock, a fool, a weakling. It wouldn't have been a bad thing to marry her. She _was _very pretty, after all. Even if she wasn't his ideal beauty, she was not repulsive.

So he tried as hard as he could to save her, to win her. To marry her. His feelings changed from grudging acceptance to outright pining, but it wasn't with love. It was with the need to be accepted.

He didn't hate Cimorene. Just because marrying her wasn't his first choice didn't mean that he held spiteful feelings towards her. He just… wanted to marry a girl with hair like sun ripened wheat and gorgeous blue eyes. He just wanted to marry a girl exactly like Keredwel. And he did.

But now he wasn't sure if it had been _him _who had wanted to marry Princess Keredwel; he wondered many things. If he had changed his mind so readily about marrying Cimorene from outright disapproval to acceptance, then why was his want of Keredwel set in stone? Since the progression of wanting to marry Cimorene slowly built up just because of the society around him, then perhaps his need to marry Keredwel was founded on the same unstable rock? The other boys in his classes had always talked about which girls they would rather marry, and that same description was the one he had idealized since his childhood.

He thought about his married life with Keredwel, and though he could not say anything particularly terrible, he could not say anything particularly good, either. He compared it to the small amounts of time he spent with Cimorene and found a surprising contrast – there were some particularly terrible aspects, but there were also shining moments of complete satisfaction.

He found that he had enjoyed the times he had spent with Cimorene, however ornery and sarcastic, much more than with his fair maiden Keredwel.

The cajoling he was forced to enact, the pompous statements she made to him, the strange outlook on life she held, the tenacity with which she always worked, the near ferocity of her anger, her rejection of the norm, her black hair, her tall frame, her proud posture, her checkered apron, her piercing eyes, her biting smile, her softening chiseled features, _her_.

He had never met anyone quite like her.

He was terribly bored without her.

He missed her.

He loved her.

He swung the sword through the air, the one with the faulty balance, and discovered that he didn't need the balance to be properly aligned as long as he worked _with_ the sword.

He decided to never use another.

Even if the balance was off.

_Because_ the balance was off.

Because this was the only way he could remember and think without doing something crazy, something weak, something unmanly.

If he didn't use it, he might have cried.

And that would be unmanly.

He wondered if the tears streaming down his face would disgust Cimorene. He didn't think she'd look on him favorably; probably shoot off some sarcastic comment that would make him laugh inside. He found that he laughed more in her presence than anywhere else.

Thernadil wondered if he would ever see her again.

He wanted to _laugh_ again.

The sword was put away, the tears were brushed back, the hair was carefully pushed up and away.

But the overwhelming wave of sadness still consumed him.

As he pattered down the stone hallways, glancing to and fro, looking all the world like a pompous king overlooking his castle, perfectly content to be where he was, he could not hide away the wound in his heart that was leaking out pain like a poison.

As he shut off his emotions, as he found different distractions to lead him somewhere else, like ridiculous quests, as he led the rest of his life, the blade Therandil always kept at his side was the same.

He regretted his idiocy.

He regretted not realizing what love was before it was too late.

He regretted losing Cimorene.

END


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